Pulse

by Patrick Carman

  Contents

  Epigraph

  PART ONE: Old Park Hill

  Chapter 1: Here We Are

  Chapter 2: Grade School Break-in

  Chapter 3: Great Story, Bro. Tell It Again.

  Chapter 4: Wire Code

  Chapter 5: I’m Just Here to See the Monkeys and Eat the Candy

  Chapter 6: How Do You Say Good-bye?

  Chapter 7: Business as Usual

  Chapter 8: You Moved Me

  PART TWO: Field Games

  Chapter 9: Adrift in Skinny Jeans

  Chapter 10: The Smallest Guy in the Room

  Chapter 11: How Did You Get Me All the Way Up Here?

  Chapter 12: It’s Not Just a Burger

  Chapter 13: Hotspur Chance

  Chapter 14: Let’s Not Tie Our Shoes

  Chapter 15: Like a Pebble Hitting a Pond

  Chapter 16: Hammer Throw

  PART THREE: Second Pulse

  Chapter 17: How Deep Does This Rabbit Hole Go?

  Chapter 18: I Brought This for You

  Chapter 19: Second Pulse

  Chapter 20: Morning Glory

  Postscript: The Prison

  About the Author

  Also by Patrick Carman

  Back Ads

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Epigraph

  People will give up their freedom for safety from a certain kind of threat.

  —A.Q.

  PART ONE

  Old Park Hill

  Chapter 1

  Here We Are

  Faith Daniels was sleeping soundly when several things in her room began to move. She was a tall girl with long limbs that extended beyond the bed into the cool air of her bedroom. The first object to move was her blanket; it slowly covered her foot, which had wriggled its way free in the night. A dark hallway lay beyond her open door, and though no one was there, the door swung slowly closed. It made a soft sound, and Faith stirred but did not wake. A dark shadow fell over the bed, blocking the faint moonlight through the window.

  On her nightstand, Faith’s standard-issue Tablet was thin, with a glossy surface the size of a sheet of typing paper. As she slept, its sleek form rose quietly up in the air and drifted over her body. It stopped abruptly over her face, then its movements became more jarring—sharp tilts back and forth—as it descended toward the sleeping girl, as if it were an animal sizing her up. Faith’s soft breath left a foggy mark on the glass.

  And still she did not stir.

  The Tablet flew with violent, lightning speed around the room. It stopped inches from the bedroom window, rotated, and faced the darkness outside. The screen turned on, and Faith Daniels kicked her foot free of the covers. She was not a girl who liked warm toes in the dead of night.

  Faith had a password like everyone else, but whatever ghostly presence had made the Tablet move also had the power to unlock its contents. For the next hour something searched the Tablet. It looked at the songs Faith had chosen, the stories, the TV shows and movies, the words she’d written.

  At 2:11 a.m. the Tablet turned off.

  It returned to its home at the side of Faith’s bed.

  The door to her room opened once more, just a little.

  The blankets were left alone.

  There was movement outside the window, quiet and careful.

  A phantom or something else had found what it had come for and was gone in a flash.

  On the first day of school at Old Park Hill, Faith walked past what was once an open-air mall. She turned in toward the rubble and made her way through a modern ruin of concrete and exposed rebar. It was not a place Faith had ever known as a destination for buying things. All her purchases were made on her Tablet, which sat snuggly in her back pocket. She pulled it out and held it by its bottom right corner and its top left corner with her thumbs and fingers. Applying slight pressure, she heard a familiar snap and pulled the Tablet on opposing ends, feeling it stretch like taffy. The Tablet snapped again, a much larger size now, rigid again and ready for some real input. Faith tapped away as she stood there, reading through a message from her mom, looking at her schedule for the day, and sending out a note to a friend. When she had purchased several shows she wanted to consume as she navigated her day, she snapped the Tablet back to its smaller size and returned it to her pocket.

  For Faith, the very idea of shopping was contained in the digital world, where everything felt like the air she breathed: at once her own and everyone else’s, too. Songs, movies, shows, books—these were the things she paid for; this was shopping. These things were in her cloud of knowing. And there were jeans and tight T-shirts and makeup, just as there had always been—but real items were very expensive, and buying them was rare.

  There were, it seemed to Faith, empty spaces everywhere, made emptier still by what they were filled with: a shameful regret; the scorching, un-American scent of failure. People had simply started moving away, most of them to one of the two States, and they weren’t coming back. This, Faith had long ago decided, suited her just fine. There was a striking aloneness in the leftover city, a vast openness that agreed with her personality. She liked the idea of being one of a few, not one of too many. And yet it did feel haunted at times, like the soul of something invisible was in the air all around her. Like something was trying to fill the empty space.

  There were many other reasons for the fallen city around her, reasons adults talked about all the time that were not interesting to Faith. She had no nostalgia for a time before when the world was different, for she had no memory of those things. This was her time, her world; and for all its desolation, Faith Daniels loved it. She was not interested in how the world had come to be as it was or when it had changed. She was not interested in moving to one of the States, where a hundred million people lived on top of one another. She was interested in her Tablet, her music, her art, her height. Boys.

  Faith liked to sit on the steps of what was once an Old Navy, as she did now, and buy a song. Songs were cheap; a single Coin paid for dozens of them. Faith had thousands of songs already. They made her feel things, and feeling was something she liked very much. And it always felt somehow right to make her purchases as she sat in the shadow of retail wreckage all around her. She had sat in the very same spot fifteen days before and purchased something expensive, something she’d saved a lot of Coin for. It was the shipping that cleaned her out. The distance between her and the nearest State, where what she wanted was manufactured, was so great, it was difficult to connect.

  Ninety-six Coin for the jeans she was wearing, the jeans that were long enough for her exceptionally long legs.

  When she’d purchased her song and it was playing in her ears, Faith stood in her fifteen-day-old jeans and walked past a vacant store—Macy’s, the sign said—then turned sharply and walked out of the empty parking lot. Her old school, a mile in the opposite direction, had closed a month earlier as enrollment slipped below a hundred. She’d moved schools three times already in the past two years, so she was used to it; but this was the first time she’d been part of a merge between two dying schools so close to each other. Faith had also relocated twice from cities farther away, where the emptiness had pushed her family out. Her parents always stayed where they were as long as they could, but the end result was the same: they moved closer to the Western State, its shadow growing larger.

  She forced herself to forget even the names of dead schools, the friends she’d lost, the feeling of not knowing who would be missing from one day to the next. This was her reality: things changed, people vanished, everything got smaller and emptier. And one day, when no one else remained, she, too, would be forced to join the State; and her way of life would come to a close. The end was near enough; she could almost reach out and
touch it. This created in her not sadness, but a reckless sense of having to fit very much inside of a little time.

  She could make out the school now, up on the hill, staring down at her through an early-morning mist that clung to the trees. She felt the tightness of her jeans and smiled at the prospect of more, not fewer, boys, because falling in love was high on her list of things having to get done in the space of a little time.

  “When are we getting that car again? This has got to stop.”

  Liz Brinn was coming down the sidewalk, alternately staring at Faith and at her Tablet, which was in its pocket size. She held it in one hand, tapping out a message on the small screen with her thumb.

  “Unless you’ve got about a million Coin hidden in your Tablet, I think we’re on foot for the rest of our lives,” Faith said. “It’s not so bad. Beautiful day. And you should look up when you’re walking.”

  Liz, who was a full head shorter than Faith, looked up from her Tablet and glanced behind her. “It was a long way over here, longer than the last place we went to school.”

  “Maybe you should get a bike,” Faith suggested. Liz and Faith had been inseparable ever since Liz’s boyfriend, Noah, had vanished into the Western State. His departure devastated Liz, left her confused and fragile. After Noah it was just the two of them—Faith and Liz—holding on to each other and not letting go. As they watched more and more people leave, they’d renewed a promise: We see this through until the end, and we don’t let anyone else in. Too risky, too painful. Better to gut it out and hold on to each other. Looking at Liz, there in front of a new school full of people who would soon be leaving, Faith wondered if the day would come when she’d find herself without her only friend.

  “You and me to the end, like we talked about,” Liz said, but then she smiled a sly smile and raised her dark eyebrows. “Maybe we’ll find you a short-term boyfriend, just for fun.”

  Faith felt a rush of anticipation. She’d recently been obsessing over the idea of a boyfriend, something that had eluded her for a little too long. She was sure this was because she was tall and lanky like a stork, and no boy wanted to date a girl taller than he was. There was also the unfortunate matter of slim pickings: so few boys tall enough to count.

  Liz leaned back and looked at Faith’s butt.

  “Nice jeans, that’s going to help. Got any Coin left or did they clean you out?”

  “Cleaned me out,” Faith admitted.

  “It was worth it,” Liz said, and then she slapped Faith on the butt and laughed loudly enough to draw the attention of the principal, who was standing at the main door glad-handing new students as they went inside. Faith and Liz stopped in front of the sprawling high school campus. It had been built in 1975, which made it seventy-six years old, but it didn’t look a day under a hundred. There was a billboard at the top of a paint-chipped white pole with a message:

  WELCOME, NEW STUDENTS.

  WE’RE GLAD YOU’RE HERE.

  Liz looked at the billboard, shaking her head. “I bet they are.”

  They waved weakly as a few of the students from their old school entered the main building. The other students looked shell-shocked at the prospect of starting at a new school, including the fact that it would involve shaking the cold, clammy hand of the principal. When Faith arrived at the door, she got her first look at Mr. Reichert and was immediately concerned. His skin had the pale texture of someone who had been ravaged by acne as a teenager. He cut his own hair or had hired a lawn maintenance supervisor to do it for him. It sat like a black dome over his egg-shaped head, straight and speckled with dandruff. He smiled hugely with the bleached white teeth he was clearly proud of showing.

  “Welcome, girls, we’re glad you’re here,” he said. He held the door open with his dandruff-speckled shoulder as he reached out his hand. Liz looked at Faith like she’d just smelled a glass of possibly sour milk. Faith nodded and smiled, then brushed past Mr. Reichert without saying anything or touching his clammy hand.

  “Stay to the right, down the hall,” he said, flashing that smile again. “You’ll find your way. And don’t go past any of the barriers; some places are closed.”

  Liz slid through the doorway before Mr. Reichert could hold out his hand, and the two girls were mercifully inside their new school. It was quieter than Faith had hoped, soft echoes from distant places bouncing off the long corridors heading off in three directions.

  “Here we are,” said Faith, suddenly unsure about the tightness of her jeans and the specter of a new school.

  “Yeah,” said Liz nervously. “Here we are.”

  Old Park Hill was constructed and managed under the assumption that 2,000 students would pack its halls on a normal day. And there was a time when this had been true. Back in the 2010s the school had even been overpopulated for a while. But now the student body had dwindled to 80 students, down from 140 the year before. Faith’s previous school had been getting even smaller; at last count there had been 53. Old Park Hill, being the slightly less run down of the two, was now the proud host to all 133 students from both schools.

  As Faith parted ways with Liz and began the search for her first classroom, she became aware of the almost complete lack of adult supervision. Budgets being what they were—nearly zero according to some estimates—the student-teacher-administrator ratio had gotten even worse. When there had been 2,000 students, there had been about 75 teachers. Now there were only 133 students, and a couple of teachers would have to suffice. And they’d need to double as the principal and vice principal.

  One hundred and thirty-three students.

  Two staff.

  And one overworked janitor.

  That was what high school was like at Old Park Hill in the year 2051.

  Faith glanced down the hallway, searching for help finding her class, and saw a redheaded girl surrounded by guys. She had the white complexion of a fish’s underbelly, which made her green eyes look like shiny marbles about to pop out of her head. Faith knew this girl, Amy, from her old school. Faith wondered what the guys always saw in Amy; it must have been her curvy figure that attracted them.

  “Hey, Amy!” Faith yelled down a long, nearly empty corridor. Amy turned at the sound of her name, her red hair moving softly like flames in a campfire. “Help me find English 300, will you?” None of the guys Amy was standing with had gone to Faith’s old school, but Amy had never been one to waste any time building a coalition of boys starving for her attention. The moment Amy saw Faith coming, she took the arm of one of them and dragged him into a classroom.

  “Such a tool,” Faith whispered. Amy was the other person besides Liz who remained in Faith’s life from the old days. She still played a lot of junior high drama games, and when it came to guys, Amy was a terror.

  Faith showed up late to her first class with Miss Newhouse, who made up one half of the teaching staff. Miss Newhouse hardly paid attention to anyone in the room, and this was the other reason why so few teachers were present at Old Park Hill.

  They weren’t really needed.

  It was often hard for Faith to imagine it any other way, so completely did her Tablet assume the role of teacher, counselor, and truant officer. The teachers didn’t teach. They babysat. The Tablet did all the real work. Lectures were streamed in from the best teachers in each of the two States, who were given multimillion-dollar contracts and fancy cars and big houses for being not only experts in their field, but outrageously talented at teaching the material they knew. The local teachers at Old Park Hill wouldn’t even administer tests. They were there to make sure no one got hurt, contain the drug use, stop fights from breaking out, and keep the lights on.

  Faith sat down at her desk and reached for her Tablet. “Who do you have for English lit?” said a voice behind her. “I’ve got Rollins. Oh, my God, he’s insane. So good. If he weren’t teaching Shakespeare, he’d be a comic genius, no joke. Who do you have again?”

  Faith turned around in her seat and saw a short, geeky-looking kid. “I haven’t
said,” Faith whispered, and then turned back around as her own lecture started (not Rollins, but Buford, who was also amazing, but widely known as “not funny”). She put on her headphones and began listening while a red keypad was projected onto the flat surface of the desk in front of her. She was able to take notes on the lightboard and insert them on a time line running along the side of the lecture, where she would also be able to reference the material later. This was how she took quizzes and tests as well, and asked questions when she needed to. Teachers had between a thousand and ten thousand aides, depending on how many students were taking their classes. If a student had a question, he could type it in twenty-four hours a day and usually get an answer within five minutes. The Tablet delivered study halls, test prep units, and instantaneous feedback on homework. The only thing it didn’t provide was microwavable snacks, and there was a rumor floating around that a future version would even do that.

  A message appeared along the bottom of Faith’s screen, which surprised her. Usually when a lecture began, her Tablet automatically locked out all incoming messages.

  I see you got Buford. He’s pretty good. Rollins is better. What’s your name again?

  Faith looked around the classroom, filled with thirty other students. Another message appeared on her screen.

  Behind you : )

  Faith slowly turned around and smiled painfully. Then she turned back to her Tablet, rolling her eyes as soon as she could without being seen by the crown prince of dorks.

  Perfect, Faith thought as she listened to Buford dissect the meaning of Henry the Fifth. I’m here ten minutes, and I pick up a stalker. And a hacker.

  Faith typed out a terse message and tapped SEND.

  How did you activate messaging during a lecture? And I’m busy.

  There was a pause of about four seconds.

  Easy! There’s a back door in version 25. It takes about an hour to code for each Tablet, but once you’re in, you can com with anyone during lectures. It’s a two-way door when I open it. Cool, right? Didn’t you hear about it?